_Mrs. Sul_. Patience! the cant of custom--Providence sends no evil without a remedy. Should I lie groaning under a yoke I can shake off, I were accessory to my ruin, and my patience were no better than self-murder. _Dor_. But how can you shake off the yoke? your divisions don't come within the reach of the law for a divorce. _Mrs. Sul_. Law! what law can search into the remote abyss of nature? what evidence can prove the unaccountable disaffections of wedlock? Can a jury sum up the endless aversions that are rooted in our souls, or can a bench give judgment upon antipathies? {474} _Dor_. They never pretended, sister; they never meddle, but in case of uncleanness. _Mrs. Sul_. Uncleanness! O sister! casual violation is a transient injury, and may possibly be repaired, but can radical hatreds be ever reconciled? No, no, sister, nature is the first lawgiver, and when she has set tempers opposite, not all the golden links of wedlock nor iron manacles of law can keep 'em fast. Wedlock we own ordain'd by Heaven's decree, But such as Heaven ordain'd it first to be;-- Concurring tempers in the man and wife As mutual helps to draw the load of life. View all the works of Providence above, The stars with harmony and concord move; View all the works of Providence below, {490} The fire, the water, earth and air, we know, All in one plant agree to make it grow. Must man, the chiefest work of art divine, Be doom'd in endless discord to repine? No, we should injure Heaven by that surmise, Omnipotence is just, were man but wise. [_Exeunt_. ACT IV., SCENE I _The Gallery in Lady Bountiful's House, Mrs. Sullen discovered alone_. _Mrs. Sul_. Were I born an humble Turk, where women have no soul nor property, there I must sit contented. But in England, a country whose women are its glory, must women be abused? where women rule, must women be enslaved? Nay, cheated into slavery, mocked by a promise of comfortable society into a wilderness of solitude! I dare not keep the thought about me. Oh, here comes something to divert me. _Enter a Countrywoman_. _Worn_. I come, an't please your ladyship--you're my Lady Bountiful, an't ye? {11} _Mrs. Sul_. Well, good woman, go on. _Worn_. I have come seventeen long mail to have a cure for my husband's sore leg. _Mrs. Sul_. Your husband! what, woman, cure your husband! _Worn_. Ay, poor man, for his sore leg won't let him stir from home. _Mrs. Sul_. There, I confess, you have given me a reason. Well, good woman, I 'll tell you what you must do. You must lay your husband's leg upon a table, and with a chopping-knife you must lay it open as broad as you can, then you must takeout the bone, and beat the flesh soundly with a rolling-pin, then take salt, pepper, cloves, mace, and ginger, some sweet-herbs, and season it very well, then roll it up like brawn, and put it into the oven for two hours.